I’m Addicted to Complimenting Strangers

I have a small problem: I can’t stop complimenting strangers.

If I like your coat, I’m telling you.

If your hair looks incredible, you’ll be hearing from me.

If you smell amazing, I may need to know what you’re wearing. (This one has boundaries.)

It started because I got tired of letting nice thoughts about people stay trapped in my head.

And now I’m hooked on what happens next.

There’s a tiny moment when someone realizes they’ve actually been seen.

Their face changes. It’s like a release.

Sometimes it’s barely anything: a smile, a surprised thank you, a little straightening of the shoulders.

Sometimes they light all the way up.

And then I walk away feeling weirdly lit up too.

(Although, selfishly, I do love how giving makes me feel inside.)

I think I’m addicted to the reminder that attention can still move between bodies.

That one person can notice something beautiful, fun, unique, or dare I say, cool about another person and simply hand the thought over.

Here.

This happened in me because I saw you.

You can have it.

No transaction. No networking. No flirting. No strategy.

Just one human nervous system sending a tiny flare to another:

I see you.

Which got me thinking:

When did we stop looking at each other?

I mean literally looking.

Noticing.

We spend so much time looking at people now, but I’m not sure we’re actually looking at them.

Photographs. Videos. Opinions. People selling things. People explaining things. People being beautiful.

We see faces all day long.

And somehow, I wonder if we feel less seen.

Maybe that’s why a tiny compliment from a stranger can land so deeply.

For one second, someone isn’t scrolling past you.

They noticed you.

Something about you resonated with them.

And lately, I’ve been wondering if noticing is one of the ways we find our way back into our bodies.

Because you have to be here to notice.

You have to look up.

You have to catch the flash of silver on someone’s shoe, hear a laugh from the next table, or notice the woman at the grocery store wearing a shade of green that makes her look like ancient royalty.

Something happens inside your body.

A thought. A feeling. A little spark of delight.

Normally, we let it disappear.

But what if you didn’t?

What if the kind things were allowed to leave your body?

I’ve been trying that.

And it feels surprisingly good. (Especially at the airport.)

And it makes me think about what it means to come into yourself.

Maybe coming back into our bodies isn’t always some grand practice.

Maybe it’s cold water. Bare feet. Music loud enough that your shoulders start moving before you’ve decided to dance. A hand on someone’s back. Laughing until something hurts. Putting lotion on slowly while breathing out the day.

Looking a stranger in the eye.

Saying the nice thing.

Maybe coming back to ourselves is less about learning something new and more about remembering how to participate in the world we’re already standing in.

So I have an experiment for you.

For one day, if you notice something beautiful, fun, unique, cool, or stunning about another person, don’t keep it.

Say it.

Not because you’re supposed to.

Just because you noticed.

Then pay attention to what happens in their body.

And yours.

That’s it.

A tiny human experiment.

Maybe nothing happens.

Maybe everything does.

Either way,

if the thought is kind, let it leave your body.

Let’s see where it goes.

Kira